


Saturn's Gravity

by lousy_science



Series: Saturn 'verse [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek (2009)
Genre: AU, Iowa, Jailbait - Freeform, M/M, Saturn 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is getting his teenage kicks in modern-day Iowa when he drunkenly stumbles into the way of a Saturn one jingle jangle morning. The Saturn driver is initially unimpressed with Jim, but can our hero find a way to get closer to the enigmatic stranger?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturn's Gravity

**Title:** Saturn's Gravity  
 **Rating:** Hard R-NC-17  
 **Word count** : 6K  
Genre: Very AU, crackfic, first time  
 **Tropes** : Teen!Jim, Jailbait!Jim, Whumped!Jim,  
 **Warnings** : Domestic violence, use of homophobic language, underage drinking & suggestions of drug use, un-beta'd  
 **Additional Pairings** :none  
 **Summary:** Written over two days while I was off my face on cold meds, this is un-beta'd and very cracky. Jim is getting his teenage kicks in modern-day Iowa when he drunkenly stumbles into the way of a Saturn one jingle jangle morning. The Saturn driver is initially unimpressed with Jim, but can our hero find a way to get closer to the enigmatic stranger?

There was a big, red shiny thing right by his head. Kind of by it, next to and above it.  
From Jim’s viewpoint it appeared a reasonable assumption to deduce that this particular large shiny thing was part of the reason he was currently sprawled on the road while his nervous system sent red alerts to the accessible parts of his mind.  
The cyclone of pain in his skull spun around. The thing was a car, a Saturn, getting all up in his personal space. Personal space he was choosing to share with pavement. His lips were cracked; he could feel it in his smile. Smelling the fug of recently burned gas and tyre rubber, Jim began to recall the downward motion of his body to the street, how those homophobic assholes at the bar had dropped him on his head again, and that vodka hadn’t helped his direction all that much. Thus this present interlude under a car bumper began to make sense.

Someone was approaching. Probably some pissed-off soccer mom on her way back from a late-night booty call with her kid’s head coach, or a Ned Flanders type who would try to convert this fallen soul with some brochures and a handful of ribbon candy. Jim weighed up his options, and given than he was beat-up, drunk, and already down here, staying lying down seemed like a wise strategy. Energy conservation. Laws of gravity.

Footsteps stopped by his head. No “Are you alright”s, no exclamations of worry or disgust forthcoming. The driver was a tall dude in a suit, and he bent down to examine the piece of club kid trash he’d knocked into as if Jim was a forensic specimen. A hand (nice long fingers, Jim noted) moved in front of his face. “How many fingers can you see?”  
“Ha, um, two. Do I get a prize?”  
The hand reached down to his pulse point, his eyebrows, a face with a sharp but blank expression came in to view. “Can you feel your fingers and toes?”  
“Sure, you can feel my – oh, yeah man, I’m fine. Just need some black coffee and some aspirin.”  
Jim went to move up, satisfied that this cold-sounding Samaritan wasn’t going to back the car up and have another run at him. A hand stilled his shoulder. “Careful, we don’t know if you have a concussion or not.”  
“I fell on my ass, not my head. I won’t sue you, don’t worry.”  
“It’s best if we get you to A&E right away. There’s a chance you may have injuries not obviously apparent.”  
Jim pulled himself upright and only felt slightly dizzy. “No way, like I said, I’m not going to sue ya. Plus I have like cockroach DNA.”  
“You’re drunk, perhaps high, you’re hardly in a fit state to determine your physical well being.”  
The stars in his eyes were fading, and Jim turned to face this steely-voice runner-over of perfectly innocent Iowan juvenile degenerates. Tall drink of water in a well-cut suit. Big eyes, which were currently narrowed on Jim, and giving him an unexpectedly rosy feeling in his stomach. “You want to take my intoxicated, maybe high ass to hospital? I’d have to be in a coma. I’d appreciate some bus fare money though, bro. Some punks grabbed my wallet.”  
“You were mugged? And beaten. That explains the black eye.”

Black eye was actually Frank’s work, which is one of the needless reasons Jim had gone to a club tonight. Last night. Morning was breaking in the sky above his Saturn driver’s head. “M’fine. Got school to get to, so unless you want to impede my progress home further, I’ll be seeing you.”

Those dark eyes flashed. Somehow he ended up getting in the car that had just knocked him over with the promise of breakfast at a local diner. Maybe, Jim thought, he’ll take me to a cabin and molest me. This night might not have been a total bust after all.

“You stepped into the middle of the road. During traffic.”  
“And from that you surmised that I was drunk?”  
Collision Man, still unnamed, was opposite Jim in a diner booth. Jim was kind of muddy on their transition from road to here, but there were hash browns and coffee in front of him and all he had to do to pull it off was to stay conscious. He was happy to sit there and eat breakfast with a good looking man with a jones for rough trade. It wasn’t the first time some suit had bought him more than a drink or a bump of coke to impress him. Except that, and maybe this was the concussion speaking, but he couldn’t read this one. The suit with the Saturn didn’t drip with the usual mix of desire and pity. There was something in those hot eyes, sure, but it was countered by the chill in his voice. Not a self-hating closeted family man, Jim concluded. Too comfortable in his own skin.  
“It looked like you were staggering. I do not have to guess that you had been drinking, given your smell.”  
“Hey now, no way to treat your date, bringing up the stank.”  
Nothing, not even an arched eyebrow. But the eyes tracked him, following the fingers he’d artfully tucked into his jean belt loops, the movement of his thighs as he stretched his legs out. Mr. Saturn was interested, Jim knew it. He just didn’t know how to crack him.

He was suddenly hungry to be impressive. He decided to show off his party trick. Jim may not be crystal clear small details like how he got here and what date it was, but he could do this as quick as snap his fingers.  
“The average item on this menu-” he nodded at the laminated sheet on the table “- costs $2.46. The median cost is $3.50. Your tip, if you go for the widely accepted 15%, should be-”  
“$1.79.”  
“$1.48, dude –”  
“You forgot the sales tax.”

Jim bit down on his lips. His dining companion drained his cup of coffee and with unhurried movements pulled out his wallet. “This will cover your meal, and a cab fare to your house. I would recommend that you see a medical professional soon.”  
“Stay. A little longer. Have something to eat. Or let’s go for a drive.”  
Jim bent forward over the table, breathing deep. He hadn’t even gotten a name.  
Eyes looked up at him, at last. “No. That is not a good idea. Besides, you said you have school.”  
“Like I’m going – come on, it’s a sunny day, let’s be a little careless. You’ve taken me out to breakfast, I know you’re interested-”  
“You would have to show some control to interest me.”

Standing up, burning Jim from the inside out with one last look, he walked out. Jim’s mind reeled with the contempt that radiated last statement. Then it fixed on it.

Jim may not exhibit much control, but he had eyes. And he’d spotted the eFleet logo on the keyring in those hands.

eFleet were an electronics company who made scary shit like warplanes and satellite systems and had a big scary Mordor-like office complex at the edge of town. After the army base, they were the biggest employers in this Podunk place. Come to Iowa, Jim thought as he strolled into eFleet reception the next day. Enjoy cornfields and purveyors of high-tech death.

The receptionist was a knockout with a long ponytail and a don’t-fuck-with-my-pamphlets look that was directed straight at Jim, who was currently fucking with her pamphlets. He’d grabbed six months’ worth of eFleet newsletters before acknowledging her third “Excuse me?”  
“Hi, Jim Smith. Nice to meet you, Nyota, is it? Cool name. I was wondering if you have application forms for eFleet internships here. ‘Cause I got one of those GPS things from you guys in my SUV and it’s totally bitching and I think I’d like to work here.”  
There would be no global warming if eFleet worked out a way to concentrate Nyota’s glare at the Arctic ice caps.

Before Jim had been expelled (just for putting a mildly pornographic photoshopped image of the school mascot up on the homepage, humourless fascists) he’d been offered the chance to apply for the eFleet Next Generation program. Back then, Jim’d had no interest in going on a day trip to see the building he might one day aspire to work as a janitor in. Yeah, he was kickass in his computer and calc classes, but only to a crappy public high school level. An afternoon’s reading had convinced him it was harder to get a job there than at Google. But Mrs. Bennis, his former IT teacher, still allowed him to go in and use the labs after school sometimes, which was nice when Frank was on one of his tears. Though honestly since he’d started getting in to the dive bars and experiencing the joys of blowing skeezy dealers for pills, hacking had been less and less interesting as a diversion.

Mrs. Bennis was still a sucker for his baby blues, though perhaps the black eye helped his cause, too. Jim solemnly promised to get to work on his GED, innocently asked about internships, and affected amazement when she mentioned eFleet’s recruitment program.  
“Not now, of course, Jim, but once you’re through college – and it is possible, I am so glad you can see that now – you could certainly apply. Having goals is important.”  
“So, all their internships now are for college grads?” Fuck.  
“Well, there’s the eFleet outreach program, too, for high school students, it consists of a lecture program, a robot-building competition, a tour of the building-”  
“Outreach program?”  
“You’re not a student here, Jim, I couldn’t get you in. Though I am so pleased you have a job in mind, eFleet – it’s one of many options.”  
Jim let his face fall. “It’s kind of you to be realistic with me, Mrs. Bennis.”  
“Well, you know Jim, the tour part is next week. I might be able, well, why don’t you come along? The rest of the class is tenth graders, who won’t know you, just keep your head down. I’ll bet you find it inspirational.”  
“Mrs Bennis, I bet I will.”

The tour of eFleet was not exactly up there with the Epcot center for thrills. Mrs Bennis was usually too busy trying to keep the kids in line, and yeah, Jim was technically a kid, too, but he’d never been quite that dumb or ugly, and their guide was not a smoking hot Saturn driver but an easily irritated woman called Clara. They had reached the fourth floor, “R and D,” Clara dryly announced, and a bunch of squishy teen faces screwed up and asked “Whazz that stand for?”, Mrs Bennis looked like she needed a valium, and Jim quietly made a beeline for the employee directory.

A photo directory, even, praise the Lord and pass the butter. One picture stood out, and as soon as Jim saw it his heart jumped to his throat. It was just a passport sized picture, black and white, but it was him.  
HEAD DEVELOPER QUADRANT 4: Dr. S'chn T'gai Spock, room 4.12.

Spock. That was his quarry. Peeling off from the group, Jim made his way down the opposing corridor.

Rooms flashed past, 4.08, 4.10, and then Jim spotted his profile, the shape of his face unmistakable, through an open office door. His heart rumbled in his chest as he moved closer to it. Not much time for him to look up, Mrs. Bennis was bound to come back for him any moment. Should he say something? No need, the motion must’ve caught his eye. Looking up through the doorway to see Jim Kirk smiling, Dr. Spock made eye contact with him.

He froze in his chair with his mouth hanging open.

The person sitting opposite him probably was pretty stunned, too. Not often that you’d see Spock taken aback, Jim figured.

=+=+=+=/p>

Jim planned to go home, jerk off in the shower, and then split before any fight could start. His mind felt cool and calm, serene with a minor victory, and now of course he had a name. Head developer, a PhD, brains and looks. Part of his mind flickered off in a tangent – maybe go back to Bennis, ask for those forms, get his pieces of paper and – and what then, James T? His mind began to stutter. Hang around at a community college, get a crippling loan, write interminable papers, do what? Better just to concentrate on how to get under the skin of this hot, smart trick.

There was a red Saturn parked outside his mother’s house. Jim’s glow began to dim, but a new excitement burst up in its place. He loved conflict, couldn’t help himself, he was drawn to it like a fly to a headlight.  
His mother was still in her army service uniform, sitting in the front room drinking tea with Dr. Spock. They had paused their conversation, and were looking at Jim. Who was looking for clues as to how the hell the Universe wasn’t collapsing on itself. “Hey Ma. Good day at the office?”  
“James. I’m glad you’re back.”  
His mother looked surprised, but not unhappy. She continued, “Mr. Spock has been telling me you have applied as an intern for eFleet. I had no idea. You need parental permission, apparently. He was kind enough to drop the paperwork around.”  
Jim gulped, and he could swear it was loud enough to be heard next door. “Uh, well to be honest Mama, I never realistically thought I’d get in.”  
Spock was looking at him. Smug fucker. Jim wanted to lick his face. He spoke, finally. “As I have explained to your mother, we usually do not accept interns without a college degree, and you have no completed educational qualifications at all,”  
Cue a death stare from his mother to Jim. She was waiting for him to straighten out and enlist. “However, you impressed us at your personal interview. The position is of course unpaid, and the work menial, but nevertheless you will be exposed to a lot of organisational experience. Given your proficiency with IT systems, as detailed on your high school record, I believe you will find the experience worthwhile.”  
He stopped to sip his tea, eyes never leaving Jim. Jim, who was still standing there, wondering if he was experiencing some head trauma-related hallucination.  
“Jim, you will accept Mr. Spock’s offer? This is really quite unexpected.”  
His mama was looking at him with nervy eyes. Jim clicked, Frank would be due home soon, too, and they both knew his stepfather would delight in fucking up Jim’s opportunities if he was in a mood. “If eFleet will have me, Mr. Spock. Or is it Dr?”  
“Mr. is suitable for my role. Thank you for the tea.”  
“Let me walk you out.”

Spock walked out of his house with an easy, deliberate stride. Once they were well clear of Winona’s ears, Jim hissed at him, “The hell? Do you think you are doing?”  
“Mrs. Bennis was more than forthcoming with your name, though rather confused. Your academic record is regrettable, certainly, but I am in charge of all intern hires for my department. Did you want to change your mind?”  
“What I want is to-”  
Jim realised that Spock had leaned in to talk to him. They were sharing breath, and all he wanted to do was press forward. But they were standing on the goddamn front yard, in front of Frank’s house, which was an instant boner killer. He couldn’t believe that Spock knew all this, all Jim’s shitty truths, his house that smelt of despair, his sad-eyed mother, his real age, and was here offering this big golden promise. Of course, it had to be bullshit.

“This Monday, 10.00, show at reception to pick up your ID.”  
Could he smell Jim’s doubt? Spock just turned and walked to his car.  
“Goodbye. You never say it. Goodbye, Mr. Spock.”  
The head turned. He looked noble, ageless. “Goodbye, Mr. Kirk.”

=+=+=+=

Nyota had just about spat when she saw him on Monday. Naturally, she remembered his bullshit pseudonym and interrogated him about why he was there. Smart lady, can tell that I’m a bullshitter, he thought, but she had eventually called Spock and, eyes narrowed, passed him his ID and information pack and directed him to room 4.12.  
“Think I can find it. Thanks for you help, Nyota. Again.”

Over the weekend Jim had bought some office threads and worked up a nice little fantasy involving Spock and his desk, Jim on his knees under it, or bent over it, while Spock said stuff like “Let me show you how to correctly file a TPS report” in that sexass voice. Fantasies that were slightly dimmed when he got to Spock’s office to find three other people looking daggers at him. There was Spock, sitting implacably in front of his desk (a good height, Jim noted , looked sturdy). “Mr. Kirk. These are your fellow interns. They entered eFleet’s program two weeks ago. Mr. Sulu, Mr. Chekov, Mr. Mitchell. Today I need some work done on the results of the first test results from lab four on the Perseus project from week 12. The data sets have been uploaded to the hard drive, please take Mr. Kirk to a work station and help him sign on.”  
Everyone else nodded at that, so Jim did too.

It wasn’t hard to work out why they all hated him. They were from the best colleges, top of their classes, and not only were they spending their vacation time doing work experience in Iowa, some teen kid in a Kmart tie was jumping in on the fun. After a day grinding through data sets, he looked up at Hikaru. “You know, I’m a local, I can take you guys out to the nastiest bars we have to offer.”  
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Iowa’s nastiest bar, thanks. And I’m trying to hold on to my brain cells.”  
“Lemme guess, the Dew Drop Inn? Off of Oak Park Road? That’s nothing, I’ll take you to McCoys, straight-up vodka in a glass that’s been cleaned at least once since the Clinton administration.”  
“Vodka?” Chekov looked interested.  
“Slow down, stretch. How about, we’ll find you, if we need you.”  
“Hey, offer’s good to redeem any day of the week.”  
“How old are you, anyway?”  
“Seventeen, why?”  
“You some prodigy like Chekov here? How the hell did you get in? This was my third application to eFleet. I’m in Yale, top tenth percentile of my class, I had to submit a 3000 word essay on why I’d want to work for Fleet just to get here.”  
“You wanna work here then?”  
“Are you shitting me? They’re the best. Secretive as hell, but with people like Spock working here-”  
“He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”  
Chekov piped up. “He’s one of the best in this field! My dissertation is on his dissertation. When it comes to neural networking, Spock’s ideas are ahead of anyone in the academy…”

So, Spock was a big deal. These guys had two weeks on him. But he had a breakfast.

=+=+=+=

A week and a half in, Jim had crawled through millions of lines of coding and become accustomed to the crappy lighting in the intern’s basement offices. He’d taken his fellow slaves to the data sets out on a tequila bender, and found them considerably more fun than the usual club rats. His mama had quit hassling him so much, he’d even overheard her boasting about him on the phone. But Jim was goal-orientated, and he’d failed to spend more than five consecutive minutes with Spock. He never joined them for lunch, unlike some other Research and Development team members. He simply gave them assignments every couple of days, sometimes via email so they didn’t even get to step foot in office 4.12. Chekov was relieved when they avoided contact, because he was terrified of Spock, Sulu was pissed, Mitchell figured it meant they were doing such a great job, because he was an egomaniac. Whereas Jim was plotting. He’d stuck a couple of obvious errors in his results, to see if he’d get called in for a spanking. Instead his work was emailed to Sulu with a note to have it re-done for tomorrow, and whew, was Hikaru was pissed at him for that.

That was fine. Jim was nothing if not resourceful. Next lunch break, he left Mitchell defending the nutritional content of frankfurter casserole to a sceptical Nyota and went to the fourth floor. Office door closed, like it was whenever Spock was by himself. At his knock, it opened.  
“Mr. Kirk? Can I help you somehow?”  
“Always, Mr. Spock. Have lunch with me.”

Spock’s left eyebrow shot up so quick it could’ve given a lesser forehead whiplash.  
“Not possible. Goodbye.”  
The door went to shut, so Kirk put his foot in its way. “How about tomorrow, then? We don’t have to go to the cafeteria, there’s a great sandwich place just down the road I could pick up something and bring it straight to you.”  
“Mr. Kirk, you will remove your foot from my doorway, and not bother me again. In the morning go directly to your workstation, I will communicate your tasks via email. Goodbye.”  
“You’ve said ‘goodbye’ twice now, I’ll take that to mean you’re warming to me?”

The door closed. Jim didn’t get it. Why go out of your way to get some piece-of-shit teen you’ve run over a job in close proximity to you if you weren’t going to take the chance to sexually harass them whenever possible? Or at least interact with him sometimes? Jim would happily sit and just talk neural networking with Spock, even doing scut work for the guy had taught him more than anything Bennis had come up with.

Friday was their final day at eFleet. Walking into the building that morning, Sulu poked him in the ribs.  
“Why the long face, junior? You’ve got another carefree month before college kicks off and the strain of keg parties and sleeping through classes kicks in. When are you finally going to let us know where you’re going, anyway? Mitchell’s full of shit when he disses you, who cares if it’s not MIT, you’ll kick ass anywhere with an internet connection.”  
“Dude, it’s not quite that – hey, what do you think they’ll do for our final day?”  
“Badges made out of bottle tops? Presented by Nyota before a banquet of Twinkies and instant coffee in the basement. Mind you, Nyota could present me with anything, know what I’m saying?”  
Pavel caught up with them. “I hear we get lunch with some of the head developers. That’s what Simon from last year wrote on his Facebook wall, anyway.”  
“Social media is a cancer on our society. By the way, why haven’t you added me yet, Jim?”  
“Hey Gary, Pavel. What’s this about a lunch? Wait, let’s go up to Spock’s and get our assignments first. Don’t want to be late on the last day.”  
But door 4.12 was locked. A note directed them to Pike’s office on the next floor, where they got to sit through a lecture on the structure of eFleet Inc. and the future plans for their line of smart phones. Then they were sent to a lab on the far side of the building to check out some 3D imaging. Admittedly, that was kind of cool, but Jim was getting restless. It was a matter of hours before his ID got handed back to a certain icy receptionist. Surely, Spock would turn up for the big lunch?

He didn’t. There were loads of suits there – including one dude Jim was sure he’d seen making out with a drag queen in the alleyway behind McCoys one time and who he flashed his ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ smile at – but when he casually asked where their damned elusive supervisor was, he was told that Spock was on an offsite program.

The afternoon was filled with wrapping up work, being told about their huge potential and how wonderful eFleet was, and promises of future meetings. Jim had agreed to join the others for ‘Getting the hell out of the basement and Iowa’ drinks, but as they walked out of reception, Jim waved them on. “Think I left my phone in the board room. See you guys there.”  
Nyota gave him the hairy eyeball when we walked past her, back into the building, but she couldn’t stop him. He’d just seen a red Saturn parked in the lot.

4.12 was now occupied. Turning the handle, Jim walked in. Spock was at his desk, and didn’t even speak when he looked up. “What the hell, Spock? I know I made a crack about you not saying goodbye, but you are seriously fucking with me here.”  
“James, what do you think you’re doing here?”  
“The hell I know! I get an offer of an internship for this amazing company, sweat my balls off working here, you barely look my way the entire time, did you regret it? Why bother in the first place? I could’ve called you out, told your boss you’d given me a job when I was just some local you’d run over and felt guilty about-”  
“I never felt guilty about running you over, you walked into the road and fell on my car. The internship was – is – a very good opportunity, and along with eFleet, I offer my sincere wishes that you use it as such to develop your obvious skills in this field.”  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”  
Spock brought his hands together in a peak, and levelled a stare at Jim, who was standing cross-armed in front of his desk. Spock’s mouth was tight with anger, Jim could tell. “You will need to work on your interpersonal skills to fully capitalise on your potential. Anger is not a suitable response to my generosity. Now, please leave, before I call security.”  
“Call them, I dare you. Show some goddamn emotion. Is this your thing, playing with people?”  
“I told you – control. It’s important, James.”  
“You’ve never called me by my first name before. I’d like it more if you weren’t being such a dick and just came for a drink with me like you should have and forgotten all these games,”  
Spock’s hands slammed down, a small, fierce movement. Jim waited until those eyes met his again. “Games? Go for a drink with you? Are you delusional? You’re seventeen years old. You have been cautioned by the police already regarding your self-destructive behaviour, do you think I want to go for a drink with you? It would not make any kind of sense.”  
Spock’s eyes dropped to his desktop. “What I did, I did because you – you demonstrated a certain degree of intelligence and resourcefulness, I offered you something useful. Something more useful than whatever you imagined I had to offer. That, James, that was something I could not do.”  
“Because I’m just some piece of shit, out of control, kid? Nice. Put that on my testimonial, please. I wasn’t waiting for an engagement ring or nothing.”  
“You don’t fully understa-”

He slammed the door on the way out. In the hallway he wished that he’d thrown the chair around and messed up his office. By the time he was out of eFleet, ID confiscated by Nyota, the building looming behind him in the dusk, he wished he’d sat down and tried to talk more. Not given a show of just how out of control Spock made him feel.

=+=+=+=

It was a month later. He’d not responded to Pavel and Hikaru’s emails and texts, or the surprising phone call from Mitchell, who’d been drunk off his ass back at MIT. Where he belonged, Jim reckoned, while he was still here in his tiny bedroom of a house that always smelled damp. Well, fuck this. He’d been moping around too long, when there were bottles of sweet oblivion waiting for him and his fake ID. Men out there who were interested in stupid, reckless boys and maybe Jim would give it up for one of them tonight. He got changed out of sweatpants into black jeans, chucked some gel in his hair, added a little bit of eyeliner, and walked out his door. Straight in to his stepfather.  
“Twenty bucks. Was in my wallet. Where the fuck is it now?”  
“Fuck, Frank, I don’t know. Ask Mom if she remembers taking it.”  
“What the hell, you little fag? What are you saying about your mother?”  
Frank was already gone, his eyes out of focus and his big, blunt body tensed up. Jim should’ve read the signs – the house had been thick with atmosphere the last week after Ma threatened to walk out on them all during a fight – he’d been too much in his own head. It didn’t have to be too late, he held his hands up, submissive, stepped back slowly. “Look, I think I have some money around, let me get it for you...”  
Fists on his shirt. “You wearing make up? You little bastard, you bet you’ll get me that money.”

It had been a long walk. Jim had been forced outside around one am, no jacket, no wallet, no phone, not that he had anyone to call. He started walking, pissed off at his own stupid moves, at Frank, his mother, the world. The left side of his torso ached – Frank had whaled on him solidly there, might be a broken rib.

Guess he shouldn’t be surprised where his feet led him. Other side of town, a new development with eerily neat Stepford houses in rows. The house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, he’d looked at it on Google maps, never in person before. Jim had drawn a line underneath his creepiness, or so he thought. It was so still here, he thought, as he slumped down the side of the red Saturn parked outside. Vaguely glad that no alarm had gone off when he touched it, he closed his eyes. The stillness of the night entered his mind.

He woke with the sound of feet on the gravel driveway. He could practically hear Spock’s brain working from down here, figured he’d say something before the cops got called and all manner of shit went down. “Morning. You out walking the dog? I always thought of you as having a dog.”  
“James.”  
Spock crouched down to look at him, reaching out for his face. Déjà vu. This time there was something new in his voice. Something tender.  
“What happened? Who did this to you?”  
“A data set, nasty one, it cornered me in a back street, told me it would vector class me into a regressive function.”  
“That neither makes sense nor is it funny. Do you think you can stand?”  
Spock slung his arm around him on their way into the house. If Jim stumbled a little more to feel that pressure pull him close, he figured he’d earned it.

It was warm inside, the décor retro and classy. No sign of any canine inhabitants. Jim was gently pushed on to a very comfortable Eames-style couch. “I don’t know much first aid. Do you think anything’s broken? Are you bleeding?”  
“Maybe a rib. Not much else. Avoided the head this time.”  
“I wish you wouldn’t do this. Put yourself in harm’s way.”  
“Maybe I didn’t. Maybe harm came to get me. Got any medicinal scotch?”  
“This was something at home?”  
“Most accidents happen there. I hear. I like your furniture. No dog?”  
Spock rose. “I will get you something for the bruising.”  
Jim reached out and tugged on a sleeve. “Just sit with me. I’ll try to stay in control. And not be a stupid teenager.”  
A sigh came from the weight settling on the couch next to him. “I never said stupid.”  
“Delusional.”  
“I am not what you think I am. I am no one’s saviour.”  
Jim turned to study that profile. “Who wants saving? I just ask for relief.”  
As smoothly as he could, he turned to close in on Spock. Pushed him back on the seat, saddled his lap, got his hands on those shoulders to steady himself a little. “Just, just let me, let this happen,”  
Hands on his hips, not stopping him, not moving him closer. “James.”  
“Jim. Remember it. Or just say Jesus. Over and over.”  
He leaned up, brought their chests together, angled his face. His jaw caught by a firm hand, and drawn close. Nothing tentative here.  
The kiss was full, intense, and wet. Jim wanted to crow, wanted to pull back a little and say something about how right it was, but he wasn’t allowed. Their tongues met, teeth clashed, harsh then smooth again. Perfect. Jim’s hands clung to those strong arms that had him caught up close and tight.

Hands smoothed down his back, gently over his ass, firm over his thighs. Jim kissed back, breathless and raw. Nuzzled under Spock’s jaw, pleasantly rough with stubble, Tugged at a perfect ear with his teeth, grinned at the resulting growl. Began to work on the shirt buttons in front of him, and had his hands batted away. “C’mon, let me,”  
Those long fingers were under his shirt now, so soft on his bruises, so strong over his hip bones. Jim ground down with the little leverage he was being allowed. Spock nipped at his chin. Hands worked down over his fly, and all he could down was keen, squeezing his eyes closed with want. “Are you sure, James?”  
“Please. Your hands, god, Spock, just do it, will you?”  
“You think you’re in a position to make demands?”  
But Spock was laughing, letting Jim writhe as he unzipped him and pulled him out. Jim’s head rolled forward to nestle in Spock’s neck as he rode that hand, while another anchored him in the middle of his back. He came with a jolt, sucking a bruise into the marble column of Spock’s neck. Felt his thighs tighten over Spock’s legs, his spine dissolving for a moment. Small, sweet kisses over his cheekbone, a petting hand over his back. Just being held, not being pushed away, he felt his come seep into his t shirt.

Reaching out he grabbed at Spock’s buttons, wanting to show him that he was more than some swooning kid who fell apart at the first touch. He exposed a furry chest, so hot, and rubbed his face in it. Spock kissed the top of his head, but stilled Jim’s hands at his belt. Jim leaned back, got a load of the expression on that roman face. He sensed what he was meant to say. “Please, let me?”

A short nod, a half smile. Undoing the zip, Jim could feel the hardness beneath. He went carefully, aware of the privilege he was being awarded. Spock’s dick was lovely. Thick, a good handful, steel under silk. He wanted to bend his mouth down but instead got kissed, decisively. Getting both his hands down there, leaning his weight into Spock’s arms for support, he gave a few experimental tugs before getting a rhythm going.

It was beautiful to watch. Spock’s face grew flushed, his breath coming harsh and uneven. Lose it, he thought, just a little, lose control for me. When he came he striped his chest and Jim couldn’t stop himself from nuzzling in for a taste. He slumped there, cradled in Spock’s arms, knowing that he’d have to get up and leave sometime. Not wanting to. Prepared to whine about it to get his way. Eventually, he was nudged off of Spock’s lap.  
“Up. Shower. Then we’ll see about this broken rib.”  
“The ride didn’t seem to hurt it.”  
Spock’s smile had so many things hidden in it. Jim let himself be pushed in the direction of the bathroom, noting that his mind was still calm even though his body was sore. The joy of victory, perhaps? He couldn’t remember when he last got what he’d wanted.

The question now was, would he be allowed to keep it?


End file.
